


I Shall Arise and Go Now.

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Rationalization, Character Development, Character Study, Gen, Post-Canon Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 04:39:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1374193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur Conan Doyle's canon does not end where fannish wisdom would expect it to, or as fans would wish in many ways. I think *Sherlock* canon has given us a way out, by way of Janine and her cottage. While this is in some ways Janlock, It's as much an exploration of how, in ACD canon, "our" version of Sherlock Holmes could end up happily in a cottage on the South Downs of Sussex raising bees without John, and not solving mysteries, and apparently quite content that way--and retire to this at about age 51. So it's more about Sherlock, and about facets of complex characters, than it is about romance. Or it's about romance in its own time, on its own terms, without a lot of fanfare.</p><p>Sherlock-centric, surrounded by much of the cast, with very little lovey-dovey, and nothing graphic in the least.</p><p>For explanation of some of my logical reasoning, skip to the end notes, where I do a bit of extended meta-conjecture and rationalizing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Shall Arise and Go Now.

_Interested in dinner? SH_

_Busy. Important? And you can call, you know. MH_

_Miss my dulcet voice? Tomorrow? SH_

_Prefer high-info-feed source material. Text does not qualify. Tomorrow, 7:00? MH_

_Sure. St. John’s. I’ll call and arrange private seating. My treat. SH_

_Sherlock, are you well? MH_

_Yes. SH_

_You’re sure? MH_

_Quite. Ta, blud. SH_

Mycroft frowned at his mobile phone. Sherlock… _Sherlock_ wanted to have dinner with him? And pay through the nose to get private seating at one of the best restaurants in London? One he knew Mycroft would enjoy?

He gave very serious consideration to cancelling his appointments. This was obviously quite serious. Then sanity cut in, and he refrained. After all, if Sherlock was showing signs of impending maturity, Mycroft could hardly claim it was a second too soon. Better to cooperate with it, lest Sherlock realize what he was doing and promptly revert to toddlerhood just to make up for the lapse…

oOo

“Yo, Shez—Wha’s gwanning? You want somefin’?”

Sherlock shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of the hoodie, and matched his stride to Billy Wiggins’. “Might be, yeah.”

“Somefin’ coming up?”

“Sorta. C’mon—let’s get off the street.” He cut down an alley, jogged into an areaway, looked both ways, and then shouldered-in a basement door with a fierce shove, forcing the old, swollen wood to give way.

“This anovver of your bolt-holes, Shezza?” Billy Wiggins’ East End accent was strong, and he played it stronger when he wanted to underline his street cred.

“Nah. Just a duck-and-cover,” Sherlock said. He forced the door shut with the same difficulty with which he’d opened it. “Been abandoned for years, though, this.” He loped across the room, through the dim light from the two grubby basement windows set high in the wall, coming to lean against a pile of stacked pallets. “Gotta start making some plans, though, and need to know what you want to do with your life.”

“Wit’ my life?” Billy scoffed, and rolled his eyes. “What life, Shez? Duck the coppers as long as I can, then get nicked, do time, start over. What else?”

“Want to do what I do? What I _really_ do?”

Billy cocked his head and studied the older man, eyes narrow. “Solve murders and give advice to toffs on how to keep from havin’ their bling nicked?” He shrugged, then said, “Seen what your Mum thinks of that.”

“Mummy has her moods,” Sherlock said with a shark’s-tooth smile. “Didn’t want me dead so you could get a leg up. But you’re right. You’d have a hard time doing the cases for the posh set right now. Might be able to do some of what I do with Lestrade—with training. You’ve got the eye. But…that’s not what I _really_ do.”

“Yeah? Wotch’ you really do?”

Sherlock’s smile became even more shark-like, and he whistled one of the hallmark phrases of classic James Bond music: Baddum-ba-dum  ba-daddum. Then he said, “Queen and Country, Billy. Queen and Country.”

Wiggins shook his head, stunned. “Nah. No way, Shez!” He looked at his mentor, then frowned. “No. Wait a minute. That bruvver of yours…”

“Clever-clever, Billy Wiggins,” Sherlock purred. “Indeed. My dear brother, Mycroft.”

Wiggins frowned. “Stole his laptop, you did.”

“Yes, I did.”

“That smart?”

“Turns out, not very. Let’s just say I’ve got regrets and move on,” Sherlock said.

“Not in lock-up, I see,” Wiggins said, considering.

“Bit of nepotism, that. Plus I’ve got the equivalent of street cred in my areas of excellence,” Sherlock replied. “Not something you could count on, I’m afraid. You’d want to watch yourself a bit more closely than I have over the years.”

“Years?”

“Years.”

Wiggins nodded, thinking it through. “Big Brovver Mycroft—he’s your top man. Boss, yeah? An’ you? You’re Spooky Shezza, trackin’ the City. Yeah. I can see it.”

“More than the City.”

Wiggins shrugged. “I can’t do more than the City, blud.”

“Yeah, you can,” Sherlock snapped back, fierce and certain and arrogant with his conviction. “Not that you’re anywhere near where you should be. You’re wasting yourself.” He stopped and made a sour face. “I’m sounding like Mycroft! That’s got to stop!” Then he looked at Wiggins. “But it isn’t going to stop while you’re wasting yourself. You need school, you need facts, you need data, or it doesn’t matter how clever you are. Fuel for the engine, Billy.” He lingered over the nickname, teasing the younger man with it.

Wiggins glared. “Wiggins. Not Billy. The Wigster. And ta-ever-so, but if I need all that it’s not gonna work. Can’t afford to quit dealing, can’t afford school. Flunked my A-levels so bad I set a new record.”

Sherlock made a face—disgust and scorn blended. “You’re thinking too small, Billy! These are things that can be sorted out for a clever fellow like you, if you’re willing to work at it. You’re good at what you do. I know it. You know it. Want to be better at more? Or do you want to stay on the streets and die on a bag head’s knife some night when they want your product and don’t have the wherewithal?”

Wiggins shrugged. “I can handle myself?”

The next thing he knew he was pinned to the wall of the basement, arms screaming pain, face pressed to damp, mildewed bricks. “You can?”

“Hey—that’s fancy stuff. No bag head’s going to come at me with that sort of thing…”

“Wrong.”

“I can look after myself.”

“Wrong.”

“What do you want me to say, Shez? Gerrof me, dammit.”

“Do you want to learn? Or do you want me to find someone else?”

Wiggins closed his eyes. His arms hurt. “Lemme go, Shez.”

“What do you want? In? Or out? Your pick.”

Wiggins sighed. “I’m not kidding, Shez. I may be clever, but not smart. Flunked every test anyone ever gave me. If Big Bruvver Mikey wants schooled spy-boys, I’m out.”

“If you thought you could manage it, what would you want?”

Wiggins thought about it. He was a warier man than Shez. Shez was crazy. But Wiggins wasn’t a coward. He gave a push. “Lemme up.”

“Why?”

“’Cause I’d want in, if I could get through it. Good enough?”

Sherlock let him up, and returned to his place leaning on the pallets. He waited until Billy had dusted himself off and shaken the pain out of his arms, then said, “Might be good enough, if you mean it.”

“Yeah, I mean it.”

“Then Big Bruvver Mikey and I will start work with you. We’ll find a way.”

Wiggins grunted his acceptance of the deal, then said, in real curiosity, “Why? I mean, why now?”

Sherlock considered, then said, “See what you can deduce, Billy.” Again he jabbed Wiggins with the childish nickname.

Wiggins scowled, and crossed his arms. He looked at Sherlock. After a moment he nodded, and began to speak, his voice quick and empty of feeling. “Getting’ old, for the street scene. Not for the nutters and the creeps that sleep under bridges. Not for the toughs. Too old to play bag head any more—pretty soon you’ll have no proper place in a crack house. Too old. Should be dead or done with it all by now, the way you play the game. May be able to stick with the homeless. Won’t fit with the crooks. Got the wrong rap sheet. Wrong ties. Me, I can slip over the line—deal enough to move into the gangs and the mobs. You? Not so much.” He paced, slipping out of his carefully constructed street persona, slipping deeper and deeper into the deductive mode he’d always had, that had only improved since Sherlock began teaching him. “Tired of it, too, aren’t y’, Shez? Not a game anymore. Not as much fun winding up Bruvver Mike. Not as much fun showing everyone what a clever fuckin’ bastard you are, either. The ones who count know it by now. The rest? You’ve figured the rest aren’t worth the effort, yeah? Tired, ready for somethin’ new. Ready to move along, let someone fresh do the dirty work. Maybe you’ve seen Mikey movin’ a new lot in, training new people, and you’re beginning to wonder ‘why not?’ That doctor and his wife: married, got a kid. Got a life, and what’ve you got?” He stopped then, adding only, “That cover it, Shez?”

Sherlock’s eyes went narrow and dangerous, but he just kept grinning that shark grin. “You’ll do, Billy.”

“Wiggins.”

“Billy,” Sherlock said, then transformed in a fraction of a second. He reached out, caught Wiggins’ head in an elbow-lock, knuckled his scalp—and growled, softly, “Advice from one Billy to another—deal with it.”

Wiggins squawked. “Wha--! You never!”

“Word. ‘Billy.’ Little Billy Holmes.” He let Wiggins go and said, “Left it behind the first chance I got, just like you. But you’ll put up with it from me, because we Billys have to stick together. Right?”

Wiggins offered his knuckles for a bump. “Fuckin’ goddamned right.”

oOo

“Sherlock! Haven’t seen you in forever, silly boy. Look at the baby: hasn’t she grown?”

Sherlock took the child from Mary, and jogged her up and down, studying her intently. “She’s put on five pounds since the last time I held her.”

“Six.”

“Five.”

“I promise, you, it’s six. On the doctor’s scales at John’s office, no less.”

He gave her his best deadpan expression, saying, “Which would you trust most, Mary: John’s scales, or me?”

“John’s scales,” she said with a cheeky grin. “You want to keep her for a few minutes while I sort out John’s accounts? It won’t take long.”

“No problem,” he said. John and Mary’s baby was an unending source of fascination. “Is she cruising the furniture, yet?”

“No, but crawling a treat,” Mary replied, already focused on the spreadsheets on her laptop. “Does stand and walk hanging onto your fingers, though.”

Sherlock slipped his fingers into the child’s hands, and then slid her feet down to the floor. He watched fascinated as one foot went in front of the next, each step a sloth-slow meditation on the potential of bipedal locomotion. He and the child perambulated around the room, both content with their progress.

When they reached the sofa again, Mary was done, and watching them. “You’re a natural,” Mary said, then risked what John would be slow to ever dare ask, and few others would dare at all. “Do you ever want one of your own?”

He frowned, feeling his brows beetle and knit. The answer wasn’t as obvious as he would once have expected. After a few moments he said, cautiously, “No. I don’t think so. It would depend, I think.”

Mary’s face brightened, and her brows raised high in amused speculation. “Really? Depend on what?” Her tone suggested she had a few guesses…

He and Mary had a relationship that was both precious and unique…and utterly incomprehensible to most other people. John found it welcome but bewildering, for example, for a multitude of reasons. It was real, though, and strong, and deeply affectionate. He smiled at her, and said, “I think it would depend on whether someone else wanted to have one with me.”

“Anyone in particular?”

He winked. “You’ll just have to guess.”

She laughed and shook her head. “Not me. I’d investigate—or let it go. No guessing.” Then she said, “But…is there anyone? Someone?”

“There’s…someone, and somewhere.”

“And if she—or he—doesn’t want a baby?”

He looked down at the child still clinging to his fingers, and said, “Then I’ll be an honorary uncle, won’t I?”

“No regrets?”

“No. No regrets,” he answered, and was fascinated to learn one more thing about himself, because his answer was almost entirely true… and false only in ways that caused no pain.

oOo

 

_Tied up through Friday, but free for the entire week after. Mind if I drive down? SH_

_So long as your bees don’t mind, I can wait. They’re not going to pine for you, are they?_

_Really, Janine, they’re bees, not moping collies or the like. SH_

_If they were collies I might hope they’d go looking for you on their own._

_When they swarm they won’t be looking for me. SH_

_Swarm? Shite. I forgot the buggers do that. When does that happen?_

_When the hives are too full._

_Which is when? Spring? Autumn? God, you didn’t leave me down here with a ticking time bomb, did you?_

_Of course not. And if they do swarm call me and I’ll talk you through it. SH_

_My arse I will! Hide in the cellar and call the fucking exterminator, I will!_

_Don’t be ridiculous. It’s quite simple. You’d need to smoke the swarm. SH_

_That is so not happening, Shay-Shay. They swarm, I stay inside and wave as they fly off._

_That would throw my plans for hive propagation off by months. SH_

_Boo-hoo. Better be here when they swarm, yeah?_

_Which brings us back to my question. Mind if I come down Friday night and stay the week? SH_

_Bribe me._

_Singh’s tikka masala? SH_

_That’s a start._

_Greedy girl. SH_

_You knew that already. That is how I got this cottage, yeah?_

_I thought it was vengeance. SH_

_Who says the two have to be different?_

_There is that. So. See you Friday night? SH_

_Looking forward to it, you bug-lover you._

_Likewise, my dear media-whore. SH_

_Hey, don’t knock it! It bought the roof that will be over your head!_

_True. It’s got to be one of the more mutually rewarding revenges on record. SH_

_Remember that when you’re in Singh’s._

_Does that mean you want me to get some galub jamun, too? SH_

_Do I ever not want galub jamun, Sherlock?_

_Never. SH_

_Well, there, then! See you soon. Missed you._

He studied her last text message, smiled, and without hesitation or regret he typed back:

_Me, too. Can’t wait to be there. SH_

oOo

He was packing for the drive down when John came galloping up the stairs at Baker Street.

“Oi, Sherlock! Mary says you’re headed out of town this weekend! Been out and about a lot, lately. Long case?”

Sherlock’s mouth flicked in a fleeting smile—one John wouldn’t see, as Sherlock was still in his bedroom with his back to the bedroom door.

“Not a case,” he called back.

“Oh,” John said, then paused, clearly at a loss for any other reason Sherlock might want to leave London. After a moment he said, tentatively, “Visiting your parents, then?”

“Nope.” Sherlock took even more pleasure than usual in popping that last “p.” He wondered if John would ever deduce the relationship he and Janine shared. He hadn’t in over a year, though—hadn’t realized there was even a possibility of someone. Dear John, always three steps behind and looking in the wrong direction. A prince among men—but it was crucial to remember that royalty was known for tenacity rather than perspicacity.

He’d put together a duffel of clothes suited for the countryside. He’d learned over the past months that silk/linen blend suits, dress shirts, and thin-soled city shoes were a liability at the cottage in Sussex, and had returned to a more adult form of the clothes he’d worn as a child at his parents’ home in the country: jeans and corduroys, pull-over shirts and warm jumpers, and trainers, most of the time. Every trip down he brought new clothes. Every time he drove back up, he left them on purpose, slowly building a country wardrobe in Janine’s spare closet. Like the time he’d intentionally left his violin behind in her home, it seemed like an anchor assuring him he’d be back again—a comfort when he left, an even greater comfort when he was tired in London, and feeling restless.

He now had five pairs of trousers, seven shirts, five jumpers, two boxes of socks, a pair of shoes, a pair of Wellies, a full beekeeper’s overall, a rather dashing double-breasted wool peacoat with a collar almost as satisfyingly effective when turned up as that of the Belstaff, and four pairs of flannel pajamas tying him to that little cottage in Sussex. Plus, of course, two hives, a spare laptop just in case something happened to his primary laptop and his tablet, five spare chargers for various devices, a straight-edged cut-throat razor and strap that he used because it was showy and dramatic and it amused Janine beyond belief. And according to Janine the black kitten was his…a point he didn’t argue as he was secretly rather pleased with the skinny, fey beast, especially as it had reached adolescence and turned long and lanky and peculiar. Then there were the books, and the spare hair brush, and a pocket knife, and a variety of other odds and ends…

“Sherlock?”

He jumped. “Yes?”

“Oh, good,” his friend said, dry and tart and slightly exasperated. “I was beginning to wonder if you remembered I was here.”

“Actually, I had forgotten,” he said with perfect honesty. “Mind was miles away.” Approximately 59 miles, according to the mileage gauge on the last rental he’d driven down.

“How very flattering,” John grumbled. “So why are you going out of town?”

“Does it matter? Why are you asking?”

“No particular reason—though if it was a case I was going to ask if I could tag along. Been awhile and I’m getting a bit stir-crazy. Thought we might get out of town, have a bit of a break from the everyday, that sort of thing.”

“No. No case. I’m afraid it’s not your sort of  thing at all.”

“No? Who knows? I mean, if it had been your folks, I’d have enjoyed that.”

Sherlock stuffed an ereader into the top of the duffel, zipped it, and ambled out of the room. He tossed the duffel by John’s old chair, then sprawled in his own. “Nope. Not your thing at all, unless you want to play with bees.”

“Bees?” John stared at his friend in open disbelief. “Bees?! What are you doing?  A study on insect venom?”

“No. Working on developing a strain of bee that will survive hive-death and produce quality honey out on the South Downs.”

John gave him a reproving look. “You’re having me on.”

“Nope.” Another popped “p,” this one also enjoyed to the fullest.

“All right, where are you hiding the _real_ Sherlock Holmes?”

Sherlock smiled, then, surprisingly softly. “I have him safely stored in the spare closet of a mercenary media-whore in a cottage in Sussex.” As he said it he saw five pairs of trousers, seven shirts, five jumpers, two boxes of socks, a pair of shoes, a pair of Wellies, a full beekeeper’s overall, and a rather dashing double-breasted wool peacoat with a collar almost as satisfyingly effective when turned up as that of the Belstaff…

oOo

“John says you’ve gone off your rocker,” Lestrade said, as he cradled a hot cup of coffee in both hands. “Something about trying to convince him you were raising bees in Surrey.”

“Sussex.”

Lestrade snorted. “So he wasn’t kidding.”

“No. But he’s also not right. I’m quite sane.”

“Well, now, that’s news! I’ll be sure to tell Mycroft. He’ll be delighted to hear it.”

“Probably have you take a picture and send it to Mummy to add to my baby book,” Sherlock said, amused. “She can title it ‘Sherlock’s First Attempt at Sanity.’”

“Yeah, it’s good to keep track of your kids’ progress,” Lestrade agreed, half sincere and half teasing. “Even when they’re…special.”

Sherlock looked haughtily down his nose. “As if you had any children of your own.”

“I count you, sunshine. ‘Son I never had.’” Again there was the blend of mischief and sincerity—more mischief this time, but still a fondness that wasn’t hidden.

“I was twenty-eight when you met me, Garvey.”

“Greg. And, yeah—twenty-eight going on three. Tallest toddler I ever did see.” He chuckled, and gazed at Sherlock in saccharine mockery. “And look at you now! Why, on a good day you’re thirty-eight going on ten! How fast they grow up!”

“Do spare me your sorry attempts at humor, Granger. Save them for the mental defectives back at the Met…” He sipped his own coffee, then leaned back in the booth of the little café. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about taking another ‘son’ under your wing.”

Lestrade cocked his head. “Oi, don’t tell me you’ve been sowing wild oats, Sherlock.”

“Hardly,” he snapped, “and even if I had, Wiggins would hardly be a likely candidate for offspring…though he’s almost bright enough.”

“Wiggins…” Lestrade frowned. “That someone Mycroft’s bringing along?”

“If I have my way, he soon will be. But, no. He’s one of my network kids. If you know him at all, it’s for the wrong reasons.”

“Wonderful,” Lestrade said, a bit wearily. “You do know it’s hard enough explaining why I have you on any of my cases? How am I supposed to be any help to a street kid, besides having a word with the arresting officer if he’s brought in on an ASBO?”

“More likely to be brought in for possession or dealing,” Sherlock said, as though it was a matter of no particular significance besides accuracy. “He’s also the only person I know who’s developed a level of deductive ability similar to my own, without my training him first.”

“Well, and Mycroft.”

“Mycroft doesn’t count,” Sherlock said, sulking.

“That’s because Mycroft trained you.”

“As I said, he does’t count.”

“But this Wiggles does?”

“Wiggins, and yes.”

“And you’re hoping to promote him with Mycroft?”

“I’m getting too old for some of the work Mycroft and MI5 have traditionally used me for. And he’s got even better contacts with many of the specific demographic groups we like to track.”

“And he’s likely to get picked up for dealing or possession.”

“Trivial,” Sherlock shot back. “With luck just something that he’ll reduce to window dressing, to maintain his street cred.”

“In other words he’ll end up hands-off to honest coppers.”

Sherlock shrugged. “If you need people who can handle the lifestyle, you can’t really complain if they’re actually used to it.”

Lestrade sighed. “And he’s like you…” His voice suggested the very thought made him a bit tired.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth canted up in wry understanding. “Not as smart—but I think you’ll find him better socialized.”

“And you want me to look after him why?”

Sherlock frowned into this coffee. “It would be in the best interests of Mycroft’s and your respective agencies to recruit a trainee of Wiggins’ overall intelligence and promise.”

“No—why do _you_ want me to look out for Wickers?”

“Wiggins. Is your memory giving you trouble, Lestrade?”

“Must be something that’s going around,” Lestrade said, with a wicked smile. “And you’re not answering my question, sunshine. Why do you, Sherlock Holmes, want me to look after this kid?”

“Why not?” Sherlock tried to sound indifferent.

“Not exactly in character, y’know? Inconsistent with Sherlock Holmes as I know him.”

“Consistency is hardly the hallmark of great minds, though Mycroft might argue otherwise,” Sherlock said, bitterly.

“Still not answering.”

“All right,” Sherlock snapped, “He’s…one of mine.”

Lestrade was silent, studying Sherlock, the faintest smile glimmering in his eyes.

“What?” Sherlock growled.

Lestrade shook his head. “Nothing, sunshine. Nothing at all. You want me to tell Mycroft he can count on me to work with Wossname?”

“Wiggins,” Sherlock said, then smiled shyly. “And…yes. I’d appreciate that.”                      

Lestrade gave a near-regal nod, accepting the thanks, then said, in a deceptively mild voice. “So. Sussex, John says. It’s nice down there, I hear.”

“If you like chalk hills,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah. So I hear.”

Both sat silent, drinking their coffee, Sherlock’s nose and ears growing pinker and pinker. Eventually he said, “It’s a good place for bees.”

“Mmm-hmmm.”

More silence, and then, “It’s nice. I…don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes there.”

“Quite a job being Sherlock Holmes,” Lestrade conceded. “So—who are you, then? When you’re there?”

“Sherlock Holmes,” he replied, grinning.

“And?”

“And Shezza. And Shay-Shay. And sometimes even Billy.”

“Billy?”

“Ask Mycroft.”

“All right.” Lestrade said. Then, “Is she nice?”

Sherlock frowned. “Not particularly. Not…’nice.’”

“Oh?”

“Smart. Funny.” He thought, carefully, and added, “Strong. Wise. Maybe…righteous.” Then, with a rueful smile, he said, “And she knows exactly how bad I can be, and she likes me anyway.”

Lestrade thought about it. “So does Molly, you know.”

Sherlock didn’t answer.

oOo

_You all right? SH_

_Shay, Sussex hates me._

_Oh, brilliant diagnosis. Despised by an entire county? I think not. SH_

_Shows what you know. The loo overflowed today._

_And? SH_

_And I couldn’t get a plumber._

_And? SH_

_And I had to use the stupid snake._

_And? SH_

_And I got it working again._

_And? SH_

_And then I slipped on the tiles._

_And? SH_

_And I bruised my damned arse, and Sherlock, if you say “and” again I’ll fumigate your bees._

_You really won’t. SH_

_No. I really won’t. But I should._

_Are you all right? SH_

_Yeah. Just cranky._

_A woman after my own heart. SH_

_XD  At least you know yourself._

_I’m learning. SH_

_Clever boy._

_Miss you. SH_

_Miss you, too._

_You just wish I’d been there to snake the loo. SH_

_Well, yeah. Of course. For you it’s just an experiment!_

_For me it’s plumbing. You know what a Londoner calls plumbing? SH_

_What?_

_My landlady’s problem. SH_

_Ooooh, I’m telling Hudders on you!_

_Do. She already knows the worst of me. I am secure in her low, but loving opinion. SH_

_Silly prat. Sherl? I really do miss you._

_The sentiment, it burns like the death of a thousand suns. SH_

_…..Prat._

_Janine? I miss you, too. SH_

_oOo_

“Molly doesn’t like me, she longs for me,” Sherlock said to Mrs. Hudson, later. “It’s not the same thing.”

Mrs. Hudson made a rueful face. “Oh, dear. It’s really not, is it?” Her expression was just the face people make before hiding their face in their hands at the more appalling scenes in movies: dismay and cringe combined. “But she’s such a _nice_ girl.”

“And I’m categorically not.”

“Oh, now, that’s not entirely fair, dear. You can be very nice, when you set your mind to it.” He gave her a look over the top of his tea cup, and she backpedalled. “Well… nice- _ish._ In an acid sort of way.”

“She is a roe deer. I am the articulated lorry bearing down on her at one-hundred kilometers per hour.”

“I’m sure if you were very careful…”

“Not when she keeps throwing herself under my wheels. She is a day-old chick. I am a cat on the fourth day of an imposed vegetarian diet.”

“It’s all a matter of control, I suppose.”

“No. Not when she keeps shouting the emotional equivalent of ‘I’d taste great with a dab of brown sauce and a slice of tomato.’ She’s a convent girl and I’m not…” He stopped.

“You’re not what?”

He sighed. “I’m not interested. At least…not the way she wants.”

“But—she really, really likes you, Sherlock.”

“No. She longs for me. I think I established that.”

Mrs. Hudson sighed. “You did, dear. I’m just sorry for her. So hard to be denied your heart’s desire.”

“Then she really needs to get a smarter heart,” he growled, then sighed as deeply. “But you’re right. She’s nice.”

“She really is.”

“And I really do like her.”

“But that’s not what she wants,” Mrs. Hudson said, pouring him a fresh cup of tea and putting another mince pie on his plate.

“No. It’s not.”

“What do you want, Sherlock?”

“A week in Sussex and for my oldest hive to swarm.”

She gave him a puzzled glance. “I was expecting you to say something like ‘a corpse in a locked room,’ or ‘a mysterious mass poisoning.’”

He grinned, all teeth and wickedness. “Oh, those are good, too.”

“Well, whatever makes you happy,” Mrs. Hudson said, cheerily. “It takes all sorts.”

oOo

_Running late. Have rescheduled our dinner for 8:00. Confirm? MH_

_How splendid to have a brother who can force St. John’s to rearrange its reservations so swiftly. Confirmed. SH_

_Lestrade says I am to assure you that I will listen to any mad ideas you present. What drugs did you slip him? MH_

_None, brother-dear. He’s just easily led. SH_

_Au contraire, mon frere. If he were anything of the sort you’d have him in wooly jumpers as a backup for your blogger. MH_

_I don’t know whether to be more insulted for myself or for Lestrade. That’s repulsive. SH_

_Consider me to be rolling my eyes. Having put up with years of you and John, it’s hard to maintain a proper level of revulsion. I’m saturated. MH_

_Poor pitiful Mycroft. If you get there first, would you order me the chicken-liver toasts and a glass of the Balvenie? SH_

_The 12-year-old? MH_

_Yes. SH_

_Modest in your demands tonight. MH_

_That’s what you think. Laters, blud. SH_

oOo

He stopped by the morgue on the way home to pack the last of his things and change for dinner with Mycroft. Molly was there…but he’d planned it that way.

“Hello, Sherlock! I didn’t expect you here tonight.”

“No. Thought I’d clear out that drawer you’ve been on at me about for the past year. Oh, and brought you something.” He handed her a paper bag.

She assumed her cute face—as practiced a role, he knew, as his own flouncing entrances and exits—and bounced on her toes, holding the paper between her fingers. “Oooh, goodies! I wonder what it is?”

“Nothing very exciting,” he assured her, pitching his voice to confirm the fact. “Boring, really.”

She opened it gingerly, and peeked in as though she was auditioning for LOLcats, all wide-eyed and slightly goofy. “Let’s see…Oh.” Her face fell and her voice dropped. “A vegetable parer.”

“Remember? I broke yours the last time I holed up in your flat,” he said, as he squatted by the drawer he’d taken over years before and filled with quite a lot of things that weren’t supposed to be in a well-run morgue. He pulled the trashcan over and began sorting. “Seemed only fair to get you a new one.”

“I never did figure out what you’d done to the first one.”

“Ruined the edge getting cartilage shavings. Kept hitting bone,” he said, and held up a bottle. “This one’s Ebola, but I don’t think it’s live samples. What do you want done with it?”

Her eyes grew. “Incinerator. NOW.”

“Worry wart,” he said, but trotted down the way to put the sample bottle directly into the incinerator chute that handled bio-wastes.

When he came back Molly was sitting at the electron microscope, trying too hard to look busy. “I hear you’re going down to Sussex,” she said. “What are you doing there? Case?”

“Bees,” he said.

“Bees? Like…mutant bees? Like weird research stuff?”

“No. Just _apis meliffera._ Common honeybee.”

“Are they…something to do with some of your research? Something to do with how bodies break down, or something?”

“No. But they make very good honey.”

“Honey.”

“Yes.”

She sighed, and said, uneasily. “She’s there, isn’t she?”

“She who?”

“That friend of Mary’s. The….” There was a pause that Sherlock was sure held the word “bitch” in it, even if it was Molly Hooper talking. “The woman who sold all those horrible stories about you to the tabloids right after you were shot. I heard she was living in Sussex.”

“Her house,” he said. “I keep my hives there.”

She closed her eyes. Then, in a small voice, she said, “Why?”

“Because the South Downs are an interesting place to raise bees?”

“Are the bees your excuse to see her?” She sounded so sad…

He sighed. “Maybe. Maybe the other way ‘round. I don’t know. Do I need an excuse to do either? Raise bees or see Janine?”

She studied him, and said, “I used to watch you, you know. You loved it when a case gave you an excuse to do something you’d always wanted to do. If it was nice, you used your cases to justify it. You could never just say, ‘I want to.’”

He grimaced, but ducked his head in agreement. “I was never particularly good at admitting anything so human as a simple desire,” he said. “I couldn’t even get addicted without coming up with an excuse before I did it.”

“You’re different, now,” she said.

“Changing, anyway.”

She tried to smile. It came out crumpled as a butterfly’s wings from the chrysalis—a wet, painful, helpless look. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m glad you’re changing. I just wish it was for me…” She snatched a tissue from the box on the counter, and huddled as she blew her nose.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Molly Hooper, I am so sorry. I will always, always trust you and love you—but I don’t think I will ever love you the way you want. I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. “Not a problem.”

“Wrong.”

“Ok, a little problem.”

“Wrong.”

“Dammit, Sherlock, let me lie? Please? It hurts so much less if you’d just let me lie about it right now.”

He nodded, pushed the tissue box closer, and returned to the drawer, completing the sort minutes later. He pushed the drawer shut, gathered the plastic bags containing rubbish and items he was taking home. “Have to go,” he said. “Having dinner with Mycroft at St. John’s, and need to change.” He started out, then turned and stood by her. He put one hand on her shoulder, then leaned in close and kissed her on the cheek. “You’re a wonderful person, Molly Hooper. I love you.”  Then he left, pretending he didn’t hear Molly trying not to cry.

oOo

“Pensive, brother-mine?”

“Mycroft, I’m not for deducing.”

“Don’t be silly. When have you ever not been for deducing?” Mycroft leaned back in the chair and contemplated his younger brother. “Hmmm. A bit hurried tonight, weren’t you? And a talk with Miss Hooper—before a drive down to Sussex later this evening. Something personal to discuss, then?”

“Oh, fine. Shall I deduce you, too? And then we can draw our swords and fence until one of us drops.”

Mycroft leaned back even further, and displayed his open hands and his lean flanks, trim in a rich, subtle dark plaid waistcoat of indigo and deepest plum and iris blue. “Not even carrying my umbrella tonight.”

“How reckless of you.”

“You know me. Slave to my taste for adventure. Speaking of which, did you tell Miss Hooper about your paramour?”

Sherlock scowled at him, and Mycroft chuckled. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, it’s not as though you can hide it from _me_. Sherlock, you’ve been under surveillance for decades, now. Well…a decade and a half, at least. National secrets, MI6, anti-terrorism. You’re permanently listed as a ‘person of interest.’ The only difference between us is that I have your information routed to me and two trusted subordinates, instead of having to let it circulate in the espionage community. Not that I get any thanks for the consideration.”

Sherlock flared hot. "Thanks? _Thanks?_ Oh, do explain that, Mike. Am I supposed to be glad you know when my digestion’s off, much less when I’m…involved?”

Mycroft’s silent stare suggested that the dozens of events in Sherlock’s past that made him an eternal high-risk surveillance subject were hardly his fault…and suggested likewise that he lived under no less absolute supervision, without the comfort of knowing who saw that material, or whether the overseer was friendly, capable, or otherwise. After a time he said, with mild cheer, “She’s quite interesting, you know. She seems an enterprising young woman.”

Sherlock rounded on him. “She deserved the money she got for the tabloid stories. I deserved…everything she said. And she was careful: everything she gave them was a lie.” He glowered “More than I can say for that mess you gave Moriarty.”

“Which you approved in advance,” Mycroft pointed out.

Sherlock shrugged. “She got her revenge, and she did it…”

“Cleverly and kindly,” Mycroft said, completing the sentence. “As I said, a very interesting young lady. So far she appears to be exactly who she says, though I admit we’ll be keeping her under observation and keep checking her background.”

“I’m sure she’ll be thrilled.”

“Probably not—but you have my permission to tell her it’s happening, and to assure her that I will have the files destroyed when we’re finished.”

“No. Offer them to her. She may be amused,” Sherlock pointed out—and was pleased when Mycroft had to bite back a quick snort of laughter. “She’s overheard us fighting, back when we were dating the first time. She thinks you need a stiff drink and ten hours locked in a room with nothing to do but watch Monty Python."

“Tell her for me that it’s too late: that treatment’s already been tried with only partial improvement.” He poured himself some water from a carafe and sipped, then asked, “So, tell me. Why her? Why Sussex? What is it about them? This is hardly the direction I expected you to go.”

Sherlock scowled. “I’d rather talk about Billy Wiggins.”

“No need. I’ve already looked into him. Excellent prospect, though it would have been nice if you’d tipped us off a couple of years ago. But Lestrade and Andrea and I are already considering training and education for him. He’s excellent material. Better at the deduction game than you were with a similar amount of training.”

“Yes, well, he’s had me teaching him, not you.”

“Temper-temper, brother mine.”

“You’ll look after him?”

“As long as he’s a prospect? Of course.”

“And if he drops out, or doesn’t make the cut?”

“I’ll let you know. And…I’ll still look out for him. Too much there to waste, it would be a shame to neglect the potential.”

“Why do you always need an excuse for doing what you want to do anyway, Mycroft? Does it always have to be disguised as some obligation of the job? A duty of your profession? A family obligation?”

Mycroft’s brows lifted. “Come, come. You wouldn’t want the world run to suit my whims, would you?”

“The world? No. Your heart?” Sherlock gave Mycroft his most penetrating, foreboding look.

Mycroft scoffed. “I have it on good authority I have none.”

“And if I beg to differ?”

“Then you’re only contradicting your own prior testimony, little brother.”

“You’ve always let me know how little that’s worth,” Sherlock snapped.

Both men fell silent, though the silence was less hostile than might have been assumed by the exchange. When they’d worked their way through double-rib chops cut from a saddle of mutton, and were in the final stages of peeling fruit and sipping coffee, Sherlock said, “It’s special because there’s room there for all of me.”

Mycroft flashed a brow. “Mmmmm?”

“Janine. The cottage. Sussex.” Sherlock stripped the last bit of peel from a clementine, and let the long, remarkably even curl twine between his fingers. “Do you know what I do when I get there? I take off the Belstaff, hang it on the coat hook by the door, and I don’t put it on again until I leave.”

“Even if it’s cold?” Mycroft said, temporarily ignoring the subtext.

“I have a pea coat, and Janine has a spare rain poncho. And umbrellas. She has four umbrellas: one’s rainbow stripes, one’s got cats printed all over it in day-glo colors on a black background, one’s supposed to look like one gigantic pink peony, and the last is a child’s folding umbrella with a duck’s head handle and yellow ducklings printed all over it.”

“How very fashion-forward!” Mycroft’s eyes twinkled. “I shall have to ask her advice when I buy my next brolly.”

“I’ll suggest she buy you one for Christmas.”

“Oh my God. Are we going to start a new Christmas tradition? What next? Get together at Mummy and Father’s after for a game of Happy Families?” He shuddered.

“Why not?” Sherlock said with a devilish grin. “Oh, and by the way, she wants to know if you’d like a ginger kitten. In the interests of family harmony you might want to say yes.”

“In the interests of family harmony you might want to lie and tell her I’m phobic.”

“She’d catch us out. You know you’re lost ten seconds after the kittens show up.”

They looked at each other. Mycroft cleared his throat. “I’m…glad for you, little brother. Glad you’ve found a place to take off the damned coat. I always did think it was a heavy burden, but you did seem to love it so.”

“Still do. May aways. Just—I found I needed someplace to be all the other things I am.”

“So I’ve heard…Shay-Shay.”  When Sherlock failed to rise to the bait Mycroft nodded, pensively. “You are growing up at last, aren’t you? She sounds…nice, Sherlock.”

“No. Righteous and fierce and funny and wise.”

“I daresay she couldn’t survive you otherwise.”

“Or vice versa.”

“Well… there is that. Do you think you’ll marry?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Don’t know. Does it matter?”

Mycroft shook his head. “So long as you’re happy.”

“I am.”

The elder brother nodded, then said, as though it were no secret, “It was good sense for the two of you to put the deed to that cottage in both your names. But I’ve had my people look it over and they’ve come up with a variant on the contract that should give both of you added advantages and protections. If either of you dies, there won’t be any complications or taxes outstanding even if you don’t marry.” He pushed a folder across the way.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said with exasperation.

Mycroft smiled, and said only, “Consider it an un-wedding present, little brother. Wish my not-sister-in-law my best.”

oOo

_About to leave London. With you in an hour to an hour and a half. SH_

_Got my bribes? You’re not coming in this door without my tikka masala and some korma._

_Galub jamun and everything. SH_

_Well in that case, I suppose I’m glad you’re on your way. I’ll be waiting._

_There as soon as I can. I’m ready to come home. SH_

 

 

End Notes

In Arthur Conan Doyle’s chronology, Watson, in “The Adventure of the Veiled Lodger,” one of the last two published Holmes stories, sets Sherlock’s career as covering 23 years, and his own time as Sherlock’s colleague and amanuensis as 17 years. That leaves us with six years prior to meeting for Sherlock to be in practice. Lestrade, in “our” Sherlock, states he’s known Sherlock 5 years, which suggests to me that depending on how precise any of the speakers are being, Lestrade starts work with Sherlock almost from the very start. Given the way people round off when discussing units of years, it’s not difficult to assume Sherlock literally started detecting with Lestrade, and certainly started working with him within a rough year of Sherlock’s start.

I age Sherlock based on B. Cumberbatch’s age, mainly for the verisimilitude: I don’t have to worry that Sherlock seems implausible when he’s the same age as his actor. In 2010, when the first series aired, he was 34. Subtract out six years, and he was 28. Then use that as the starting age for a career that spans 23 years: Holmes retires from public practice at the age of 51…young even in our era, and exceedingly young in his. He doesn’t retire as an old man at the end of his years, but as a man in the prime of his years—almost exactly the age Rupert Graves is now. Not a spring chicken, by any means, but not an ancient sage, either.

Further, going by canon, Sherlock doesn’t retire with Watson. He retires to his cottage in Sussex to tend his bees without his companion, who marries a second time and goes into medical practice again. They remain in touch, and one suspects given the writing habits of the time, that they remained in regular communication; however, a canonical description of Holmes’ retirement doesn’t allow for John and Sherlock cozy together in that cottage in Sussex. There are many things that can be waffled in canon, but that one’s pretty distinct. Watson, in “His Final Bow,” says Sherlock is rumored to live “the life of a hermit” in his cottage on the South Downs of Sussex, but the phrasing and context leave room for a slight fudge: Two people, living a quiet and isolated life apart from the rest of the world, may still be considered “hermitlike.” But the pair or family in question can’t be Watson and Holmes. They’re quite clearly stated to be living separately from 1906 on, 1906 being the year Watson remarries.

Now, all of this opens some interesting questions. First, why does Holmes retire at a comparatively young age to the back of beyond on the Sussex Downs to raise bees—and apparently like it quite well? I mean, really! Even the canonical Holmes seems an odd choice for that outcome, with his restlessness and his roots in London. Yet Holmes himself, in “The Lion’s Mane,” says the following:

**It occurred after my withdrawal to my little Sussex home, when I had given myself up entirely to that soothing life of Nature for which I had so often yearned during the long years spent amid the gloom of London.**

Ok, not the Holmes we’re used to, is it? Yearning for the countryside, and wanting to leave London?

This story is part of my headcanon for what is going on there. Janine and her Sussex cottage make it easy, but it’s more than just having a sweetie to go to. To me it seems like Sherlock Holmes must, at some point, finally stop loving being “Sherlock Holmes.” The role has to eventually pall on him. John, in our version, points out at the end of “The Empty Hearse” that Sherlock loves being Sherlock—loves the role of Sherlock. But that, by definition, suggests that both John and Sherlock know that it’s a role Sherlock’s playing…that much of who he is was and is an act of make-believe.

That leaves open the question of who Sherlock Holmes is when he’s not playing the role of the Great Detective. Who’s the man under the glorious, flamboyant rigamarole? Who’s the man who longs for the country and spends decades at the end of his life keeping bees?  That man almost has to be a quieter man than the Sherlock we know from the show. He’s got to have a bit of a sense of humor about himself and his grandiose role in London. He’s Sherlock: one expects (and can determine) that he remains arrogant, prickly, and more than a little insulting. (You should read his backhanded slam at Watson, narrated in the first person, suggesting Watson’s the ideal companion because, come hell or high water, he’s never got a clue and he’s always amazed and surprised at everything Holmes does. A reliable idiot… Even taken as a fond tease, it does suggest that Doyle’s Sherlock never did come down from his high horse entirely…)

In any case, the man who retires to Sussex isn’t quite the same man who dominated his field in London. Whatever overlap there is between the two personalities, Sussex Holmes is quieter, less driven by his boredom and restlessness, less desperately bohemian in his lifestyle and tastes. He’s more content—much more content. He appears to be happier. He still takes cases when he chooses, but one doesn’t expect him to go loony tunes if Lestrade hasn’t got something for him. Cases are no longer his drug surrogate….indeed, from the looks of things, Holmes in Sussex has finally escaped that driving need to self-medicate, either through chemistry or through case work.

That suggests something very simple: that under the Holmes we know, hidden in the role, perhaps even hidden from Sherlock, is at least the seed of Sussex Holmes. Maybe even a strong growing sapling Sussex Holmes, well on its way to development, but with no arena in which to function when in London. The Great Sherlock Holmes isn’t a particularly good role for demonstrating one’s capacity for quiet, and contentment, and calm.

It’s that sense that there almost has to be a Holmes we don’t know growing and evolving inside the Holmes we do know that makes Janine and her Sussex cottage so tempting to play with. In this story I decided to let Janine and her home become the place where That Other Holmes can come out and discover himself. She and her home present the one place he can stop being the role—or, perhaps, can simply integrate all the different aspects of himself: the hidden ones, the fragmentary ones, the ignored ones. The ones that don’t fit the man John Watson imagines him to be.

Let’s be honest: Dr. John Watson, in both ACD canon and _Sherlock_ canon, dreams Sherlock **_BIG._** John sees Sherlock as a titan, a wonder, an amazing man, a hero. Every peculiarity noted is noted in full. Being John’s version of Sherlock Holmes leaves very little room to be a man who loves nature and keeps bees.

To me, that may explain why Sherlock over the years might come to long for his time with Janine in her cottage…and why he might be willing to part ways with a John who’s set to marry again in any case. The cottage provides a home to a different man than the one who shares bachelor digs with John at Baker Street.

The way things currently stand on _Sherlock_ , Janine has at least the first hint of ACD Sherlock’s place on the South Downs, with bee hives. I’ve chosen to write Sherlock as conning Janine into replacing the hives she got rid of. I’ve chosen to imagine him visiting often, both to see his hives and his quirky lover. I’ve chosen to see him, over time, realizing that in the long run, the day will come when he wants the peace and the downs and the sheep on the wold and the bees in their hives… and I’ve chosen to imagine a Sherlock who starts planning for that.

The writers of _Sherlock_ have presented him as using things like cases to allow him access to things he doesn’t feel quite right about doing just because he likes doing them. Dancing, for example. Or dating sassy bridesmaids. I kind of like the idea that in inventing Janine and giving her Sherlock’s cottage they created an excuse Sherlock could use to discover and indulge his taste for country life and country silences. If Magnussen was an excuse to date Janine, Janine is an excuse to spend time in Sussex.

If one wants a purist version of all this, one can kill off Janine, or have her sell the place to Sherlock, or have him simply buy the cottage up the road, allowing him to live alone in his hermitlike splendor. But the ACD Sherlock has a “housekeeper,” even in his cottage…which was, in Victorian times, sometimes a polite euphemism. It’s not entirely unreasonable to have Sherlock and Janine lovers in their cottage, perhaps never formally marrying, but together for all that.

Anyway, that’s how I like to imagine it.

This story, though, is about Sussex Sherlock making his peace with London Sherlock and London Sherlock’s many friends, preparing for a day in some unstated future when he will be ready to leave them for a new adventure.

 

 

 

 

 

 

# The Lake Isle of Innisfree

BY [WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/william-butler-yeats)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;

Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

  


And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

  


I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

**Author's Note:**

> Go To End Notes


End file.
